Page 88 of Accidental Mile High Daddy
“Bullshit,” she snapped. “It is a test. You know it is.”
“I’mscared.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to punish him for every awful thing Ryan did to you, or every time Matt made the wrong call months ago. You asked him to show up, and he has. You asked him to be present, heis,” she said, counting them on her fingers. “If you keep standing there waiting for him to say one thing you know he struggles with, you’re going to lose him.”
The crack in my chest widened.
“So, he didn’t say‘I love you’in a dramatic monologue. Maybe that’s not how he’s wired. But youknowit.” She gripped the handle on the side of the bed, leaning over me. “I mean,fuck, Si, I know it and I’ve known him for all of ten minutes.”
I wiped hastily at my eyes again, hesitating before nodding once. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Good,” she breathed. “God, babe, I know you’re psycho-pregnant right now, but you’ve got to chill out. Just try not to ruin this.”
Chapter 30
Matt
Traffic was shit.
It always was around now, just enough time lost between leaving the office and getting on the interstate to ensure I hit the red lights, construction zones, and people who were clearly lost and didn’t know how to merge.
But even with the frustration of it, the weight that had clung to my shoulders during my usual drive home before, wasn’t there anymore. Not like it used to be.
Because going home stopped feeling heavy.
Even now, weeks into our new routine, I caught myself thinking about her being there like I wasn’t used to it yet, like it still surprised me to have someone waiting for me who wasn’t an almost-six-year-old or Margot.
Sienna, even confined to bedrest, somehow still found ways to take care of me. I didn’t know when or how she was finding the time to do it, but most work mornings, there was a packed lunch waiting for me in the fridge, whether I was going into the office or working upstairs. Each one had a little Post-It note on top, something ridiculous scribbled on it each time.
Today’s?Don’t forget to eat lunch this time, or I’ll send an anonymous email to all of your employees with that securitycamera footage of you doing Zach’s dino-dance out back last night.
I’d snorted when I read it this morning, and now the Tupperware sat empty on the passenger seat.
She’d managed to keep her dry, ridiculous humor, even while stuck horizontal and never fully comfortable, no matter how many fancy maternity pillows I bought her. Some mornings when I checked in on her, I’d find her already awake, scrolling on her phone, hair a mess, legs half-tangled in the sheets. Sometimes she was sick. Sometimes she was still out cold. Every time, though, my chest tightened in that way I wasn’t used to with someone who wasn’t my kid.
I liked coming home to her.
When I pulled into the drive, the porch light was on, the faint flicker of the television lighting the window of the downstairs suite. I kicked off my shoes at the door, loosened my tie, and followed the soft trail of Zach’s giggles through the hall.
He was curled up beside her on the bed, one leg thrown across her knees like he’d claimed her completely. Sienna was propped up against the headboard, hair in a messy bun, laughter bubbling as Zach proudly read a line from the book in her lap with all of the emphasis of a failed theatre kid.
He looked up when he saw me, eyes wide. “Daddy!”
I grinned, already stepping toward the bed. “Hey, tiger.”
He launched himself across the mattress and into my arms without hesitation. I caught him mid-air, lifted him against my chest with one arm, and squeezed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He was starting to get too big for this, but neither of us cared. I’d milk it as long as I could.
“What book are we on today?” I asked, tossing Sienna a grin before looking down at Zach.
Zach’s nose scrunched. “I dunno the title.”
Sienna lifted it from her lap, showing me the cover. “Bookthreenow of Dinosaur Treehouse.”
“Wow,” I said. “Have they actually built the treehouse yet or…?”
Sienna snorted. “Nope. Still gathering materials.”
“They foundscrewstoday,” Zach chirped.
